A Rare Fragrance
by salamandragora
Summary: F'lhaminn is sweet. F'lhaminn is pretty. F'lhaminn is... older than her, a bit, sure, but that's a pretty stupid reason in this volatile world to put off romance. No, the only problem is that after all the leaders and warriors of fabled renown she's met and all the gods and primals she's killed, wooing her crush seems like her hardest challenge yet. F!WoL x F'lhaminn.
1. Chapter 1

**New spoiler warnings will be given at the start of each chapter. For the start, this should only be... up through the end of 2.0 (the basic 1-50 quests, without the patched in stuff pre-Heavensward).**

* * *

The Warrior of Light is a little hopeless, should you ask the opinion of the Scions' recently acquired receptionist.

Whatever her official capacity, F'lhaminn's most important job in this role, she thinks, is to notice things. First among these things, of late, have been the numerous and rather obvious organizational shortcomings in a certain young miqo'te. These include a distinct lack of concern over feeding herself often or well, no compulsion to sleep in an actual bed, a strange aversion to keeping her armor and clothing in a state above 'rags', and an abject inability to remember to organize or empty her satchels so that she is not perpetually bursting at the seams.

To name just a few.

This is not an assault upon the character or responsibility of the girl: merely a set of observations. Considering all that the quiet little thing is doing for the world, it is difficult to fault her these—relatively speaking—small details. And considering that no one else seems to notice, F'lhaminn thinks that the girl could use some help. Or, as F'lhaminn is often too busy to help outright and as she will _not_ prioritize any one Scion to the detriment of others, she could, at least, make an effort to exhibit some small shows of extra kindness.

The next time the girl—the so-called Warrior of Light, which she feels is excessive at best—falls asleep at the counter after dinner, F'lhaminn lets her rest a while instead of waking her to vacate the seat. When the moment seems right, some twenty minutes later, F'lhaminn finally rouses her with a light brush of the hair from her face. The hero of more and more Eorzea by the day blinks her eyes open in gentle confusion—not the sudden burst of fear that F'lhaminn sometimes thinks she has seen her hastily smother upon being awoken too suddenly or too roughly.

"I wouldn't care to know what my neck would feel like after too long spent sleeping at a barstool. I wouldn't care to know what your neck might feel like either. Mayhap the walk to your bed might be braved for the promise of a more pleasant morning?"

The Warrior of Light smiles, and gives an appreciative nod, but both those actions suffer from a slight delay. In that gap, F'lhaminn sees a simpler, maybe untapped gratitude. _Thank you. For being gentle._ Perhaps…? Or more likely is the fact that F'lhaminn indulges far too much in her unbecoming habit of reading so deep into things as to risk entering the realm of fiction.

But even after the girl has meandered off to a proper night's rest, F'lhaminn is peppered with lingering thoughts of her. It only takes her a few minutes to realize the likely cause: that their brief exchange just then was the first private moment of interaction that the two of them have shared, barring F'lhaminn's recruitment, at least. That is at once a warming thought, but a disappointing one. She has been here some months already, and yet she really does hardly know the so-hailed savior of Eorzea. As she cleans off a final few plates before turning in herself, F'lhaminn resolves to remedy this.

The next few days pass quickly, as most days are wont to do lately. Warriors set out bright and bold, and other warriors return dim and drawn. The exhaustion of the latter always fades soon, quick to be expunged by good company, good food, and a good bed. In particular, however, the Warrior of Light seems entirely absent. F'lhaminn finds that it matches with her life's experience: the way in which the object of her resolution has proceeded to disappear for four days in a row starting at the precise _moment_ F'lhaminn thought to get to know her a little better.

But, though it is a curious little detail—curiouser, even, that F'lhaminn has picked up on it—she is reasonably certain that the Warrior of Light is never absent from the Rising Stones for more than four days at a time. Try as she might, she cannot remember a longer disappearance than this. As it is now the evening of the fourth day in this present absence, she decides to wait. When all have retired from the main hall, F'lhaminn remains, maybe only to test her observations, to see if she is drawing meaningless patterns in the sand, or if the girl will really—

The doors crack open as quietly as the steps that follow, which is to say, very quietly indeed. But F'lhaminn knows that sound startlingly well—well enough to hear it every time, even over the roar of a score of hungry Scions bickering and laughing and regaling one another. How loud those doors reverberate to her now, in this moment of stillness within the Rising Stones.

"Welcome home."

The girl comes to a halt, her body paused in surprise for all of an instant before it relaxes into a relief that spreads swiftly through her exhausted form. Shoulders drop and posture wobbles, hands unclench and lips twitch. F'lhaminn takes pride in the sense of coziness and comfort that she helps craft for these returning champions, but even so she is taken briefly aback by the radiating warmth in the expression of her lone guest, upon seeing the counter staffed and the lights dim but still lit. A spring enters her steps, and she bounds to the counter to take her favorite—her only—seat.

F'lhaminn is no giddy child awaiting a crush after school, but she is quite smug and even a bit delighted that her prediction was correct, and that her efforts to stay up and greet this particular individual have paid off. To think, she's already managed to see such a lovely smile—why, her efforts feel satisfactorily rewarded already. Anything more is mere icing on the cake, or, as Tataru might put it, gil in the pocket.

"Pray tell, what slice of Ul'dahn cuisine strikes your beleaguered fancy on this eve?"

Miqo'te eyes similar to her own fix upon her, disappearing only between quick blinks, and the head bearing those eyes only tilts slightly. F'lhaminn knows by now how to interpret this answer, for it is the only one that is ever given. _Chef's choice, please._ Cute of her to always leave the choice to F'lhaminn, but a little unusual, as F'lhaminn knows that in other environments the Warrior of Light seems quite fond of choosing her dishes with deliberate care.

"Sit tight, then."

As she begins to cook, F'lhaminn starts to prod—very gently—with words, with questions, and with attentiveness. This quiet miqo'te seems to resemble a closed flower, F'lhaminn thinks. Prying at her petals might cause them to close tighter. If you leave her in the right environment, occasionally she can be seen to open briefly on her own. But if one is very patient and very gentle, maybe she can be coaxed. Sure enough, after a few careful minutes, F'lhaminn's efforts are met with a small success: the eliciting of a short and rather cute story about an interaction between the warrior and her chocobo. A bit more, and she hears an anecdote about a strange gentleman detective mistaken for an undead—whether this is an occurrence from reality or a recently read work of fiction, F'lhaminn neither knows nor cares. These stories are amusing, and it is the storyteller that makes them so. By now, F'lhaminn's continuing efforts are unnecessary. Suddenly sharing more words in one sitting than F'lhaminn has heard cumulatively spoken from the Warrior of Light over their entire acquaintance, a host of tales flow forth, describing the toxic wonders of the Aurum Vale, the ghostly inhabitants of Haukke Manor, dragons and fish lords and arrogant voidsent and onward…

Her voice is quiet but firm, and F'lhaminn has no difficulty hearing every word over the sounds of her own cutting and sautéing. The stories wind in such a way as to draw F'lhaminn in without her realizing how immersed she is until the climax approaches and her hands have all but halted in their meal-making.

This girl, taciturn though she may be, is clearly a lover of words. F'lhaminn feels a distinct sense of loss that it has taken her until now to hear this side of the Warrior of Light. When the meal is finished being prepared, F'lhaminn feels herself the receiver rather than the giver of time and energy for the evening.

"Here you are: a meal fit for wanderer, warrior, and master storyteller."

She receives, as she expects, just an honest smile as her reply. But it is not that the girl has closed back up—rather, F'lhaminn rejects her previous analogy altogether. The wildflower that is this young warrior is open now, and always: constantly exposed to soak up all the light in the world, and to shine back in return with the vibrant colors that she possesses.

A flower that brightens an entire room, and yet it is all too easy to pay her a mere second's heed and move on. A shame, that it has taken F'lhaminn until now to realize this. She intends to take advantage of any such future situations to further remedy this oversight.


	2. Chapter 2

**No spoiler change. Still just vaguely 2.0-ish content. Thanks for reading.**

* * *

F'lhaminn is kind. No—well—yes, but—that isn't really what you're trying to get at. F'lhaminn is… interesting? Unexpected? Definitely, she seems like she'd be a bit of a tease sometimes. But whatever it is, that half smirk with a twinkle in one eye is the thing that makes your chest warm and pushes a stupid smile up your throat and out onto your face.

F'lhaminn is sweet. N-Not like _that_—or, maybe she is, but that's not the—

She's sweet the way she looks out for you, but even sweeter in how she doesn't treat you differently because of, well, whatever everyone else thinks you are. Warrior of Light? F'lhaminn seems as immune to titles as she is to the pleas for forgiveness from those who fail to clean their plates and end up washing everyone's dishes for the rest of the night.

And, you know, though she does her job with sharp professionalism, you get the sense that F'lhaminn's a bit selfish too. She probably isn't nicer to people than she wants to be. All that to say, she definitely cares for everyone in the Rising Stones, but you feel like when she goes even a little bit out of her way to be nice, it's because she really means it.

In general, maybe F'lhaminn doesn't notice you any more than she notices anyone else. But the reverse is definitely not true: F'lhaminn has been on your mind for a while, now. In the curious sort of way. In the crush sort of way. Crushes only mean so much when you barely know the person, and you're certainly not _un_familiar with having instant attraction or immediate interest in somebody else. And she's a bit of a mom, it feels, to most of the Scions (and literally a mom to one of them), but… but you liked her a bit even before she settled into that role, so… so… Well, you're not sure _what_ you're justifying with this ambling train of thought, but it feels like an important thing to point out. Or it feels like you _feel_ it's an import—

At any rate, crushes will do as crushes will do, and you'd decided to let it slowly fizzle itself out. F'lhaminn seems kind of serious, and maybe serious in the "Oh that's a little weird but sort of cute but either way no thanks" sort of way, and since she's a nice source of emotional rejuvenation for you and everyone else, you'd figured it would be best if you didn't go and make it weird.

…And then she had to go and wait up for you and cook for you past midnight (you _know_ she usually goes to bed earlier than that) and smile at you and gently ease words out of you (when everyone else seems like they're trying to _squeeze_ them out) and show off to you just how cool and mysterious and _interesting_ she is and you want to get to know her better and there goes your resolution like a burning scrap of paper.

Your heart's a little quick when you lay in bed that night, and a few stupid giggles escape from time to time on your slow, winding path towards sleep.

F'lhaminn is great. Whatever that means you will or won't do, she's just great. Maybe you'll try to get some advice on that whole "what do to" front. (Or, maybe you just want to gush.) A visit to Dragonhead might not be uncalled for. You've got a little free time. Only a little, but a little is enough.

* * *

"Love? Love?! Splendid! Ah, how honored I am that you would turn to me, Haurchefant, for such advice! I want to hug you. May I hug you?"

He's being as ridiculous as ever. You let him hug you.

"So? How much detail shall I be given to work with? I can deduce… yes, I sense through the aether itself… that the object of your affection is… female!" Your gaze turns gradually less patient. He's known how you swing since the first time you stayed up drinking together and started bragging about, as he put it, the 'luscious bosoms' you'd each encountered. "Hmm, well, such a detail, among others, may be faintly useful, but they matter not in the end—my experience is not limited by gender, nor race, nor age, nor—"

Your patience continues to wane. Why exactly did you think this was a good idea? Well, aside from the fact Haurchefant is your best friend and is downright hilarious and actually quite helpful, even when he is simultaneously just a bit maddening.

"Apologies, apologies, my ramblings shall cease. But, in more seriousness, will you tell me at least something? I must be fed some small nugget of information to begin to resolve this silhouette of a damsel that exists yet shapeless in my mind's eye."

Twelve, he's excited. It's a bit adorable. And it's relaxing you a bit. You tell him that she's—

"Oh? Oooh! A maiden of distinguished years!" Your immediate protest is stammered out—his choice of words treads dangerously between compliment and insult, and you'll stand none of the latter! Also, you told him _older_, not _old!_ Geez, what sort of person is he imagining? Granted, you don't _exactly_ know how much older than you F'lhaminn is, but that's a minor—"Of course, of course. You are so young, there is a tremendous range of years that qualify as simply 'older' than yourself without passing on to the realm of, ahem, distinguished." He nods, eyes shut, but then looks to the horizon and strokes his chin. "Yet I cannot help but feel… that if she were merely a handful of years your senior, you would have estimated it with a response of 'close to my own age'. But, of course, all this is speculation, and a bit of well-meaning teasing. Returning to the severity of the topic at hand, in truth, there is but one more thing I must needs know in order to aid you in earnest."

Suddenly Haurchefant's hands land firmly on your shoulders, and he meets your eyes as though he is about to ask you something of tremendous import. Is there truly one simple question he could ask, your answer to which would profile enough about you and your prospective romantic interest that his advice would be sharpened to a needle's point of precision?

"Sister in arms—both in battles of blood and battles of love—speak unto me the truth." Of course. If it would help him help you _this much_, you'd be honest about nearly anything. "Is she… old enough to be your mother?"

* * *

You sip cocoa by a crackling fire while Haurchefant sits opposite, trying to drink his own while holding a bit of ice wrapped in cloth against his jaw. When the Warrior of Light is flustered—when she is _betrayed_, and by a dear friend no less—she does not _slap_, nor anything so maidenly. Haurchefant will live. Though whether or not he'll prove useful is another question entirely.

"Ah." He suddenly speaks, and you're eager to show him that a miqo'te is fast enough to set down her cocoa without spilling a drop and _still_ punch him again before he even knows she's coming. "Though I was a tad dizzy at the moment, and you were… well, rambling hastily in a rather scandalized tone that was hard to make out precisely, I do believe I heard you mention within the torrent that this maiden is a fan of perfumes and fragrances?"

You nod. This sounds… not immediately disastrous. You make sure that your glare still reminds him to behave.

"It occurs to me that there is a rare flower in a cave some distance northeast of here—one could leave after breakfast and return before dinner with the proper mount, and an experienced guide to direct them. The alchemists sometimes make the journey to gather this flower for their medicines, but I believe I have overheard them speaking about it possessing a very novel and not unpleasant odor."

You never thought you'd see a grown Elezen be literally dragged along by you through only the force with which he grips the hem of your cloak.

"Did you not listen to anything I—The cave is very difficult to find without an experienced—There are fell creatures that would give even the Warrior of Light herself pause if she was alone when—Take me with you, please! If I do another page of paperwork without an adventure to rekindle my soul beforehand, I'll shrivel away! I'll rot and decay at my very desk—the cruelest end that a warrior can meet! Surely you must grant me _that_ sympathy at least!"

…You ask why he can't just go and chop things up on his own from time to time.

"There is so much paperwork to do, I can not escape with my old excuses any more! No, wait, I know how that sounds, but I assure you, I am the victim in this! As you know, there are so many beautiful individuals in Eorzea that t'would be a shame to abandon to a cold, empty bed, that from time to time I _claim_ to have an adventure, upon which I will thusly embark and finish with _immense_ haste due to my exceptional physical prowess, and then make my way to one such lonely bed and warm it—a truly harmless plot, and nay, indeed, one I ought to be praised for! When my habit of sheer _benevolence_ was discovered, it was decreed by my own faithful followers that I was forbidden from venturing out lest I had—can you believe this—an _escort!_ Lord Haurchefant, reduced to… to being accompanied as though he were a misbehaving child! But surely, if it were in the company of the Warrior of Light herself, I could make a case to leave this prison of stone for but… but one lonely afternoon…?"

He's long since gained your compliance if only on account of getting him to stop lamenting his terrible 'plight' to you. You meet with the captain of his guard to claim custody of the giddy Elezen, and set off posthaste into the snow.

Or, so you would have done, had Haurchefant not needed nigh upon an hour to collect 'adventuring rations', which you only discover at the cave itself to be wine and cheese. Dumbfounded as you are by his incorrigibility, it… is a little difficult to get upset, given that you've found the treasure you sought, and now find yourself with some very nice 'rations' to celebrate with.

Twelve be praised for this lovable, reliable miscreant.


End file.
